DUNGENESS SPIT

gull becomes a language we think we understand—
we take no notice of crows stalking the sand
immersing us in shrill, portentous cries

I stuff fat pockets with rocks and shells, certain these days will never fade—
prowling the shore till dusk—nights we collapse
into bed—air charged and alive

half a century later, my wrinkled fingers smooth the ridges of a shell
a strange wind swirls through neglected corners of my mind
smell of a shoreline unchanged

I say to that young girl—not yet twenty—almost sixty-five—
(lover of Dungeness and all points west)
we lost something precious those many years ago—

no imaginary tale (slender redress of life) can save us from ourselves
a distant sea rises and falls—the dark drift a groundswell of grief—
loss, my teacher—love, the lesson

I often wonder now, along which deserted shore
will some young girl (child-no-more-a-child)
straggle over driftwood till shadows become the night

heedlessly give no thought to the morrow—
to white sea birds—hooded crows
brooding


Published in: Inscape, 2012